written in wreckage, rooted in bloom

i have started over more times than i can count. not the pretty kind either. not the soft morning, fresh coffee, clean slate version people love to romanticize. i mean the ugly kind. the kind where your hands are shaking, your chest hurts, your body is tired, your heart is pissed off, and you are standing in the middle of your own life wondering how the hell you are supposed to keep becoming when so much keeps trying to break you.

but here i am. still breathing. still writing. still blooming out of things that should have buried me.

this page is not going to be polished to death. i am not here to package pain into something cute so it goes down easier. i am not here to pretend healing is always graceful, love is always safe, motherhood is always soft, or survival always looks inspiring. sometimes survival looks like rage. sometimes it looks like silence. sometimes it looks like loving people and still having to admit they are hurting you. sometimes it looks like walking away with your whole damn chest cracked open because staying would have killed something in you that you are finally learning how to protect.

this blog is where i will put the things that have nowhere else to go. the love. the grief. the lessons. the body that keeps changing. the wounds i am still pulling glass from. the softness i refuse to let this world beat out of me. the wild parts. the tired parts. the woman i was. the woman i am. the woman i am clawing my way toward.

i do not want this space to feel perfect. i want it to feel honest. i want it to feel like sitting across from someone who finally says the thing out loud. the thing you thought you were alone in. the thing you swallowed because it felt too heavy, too messy, too much.

you are not too much here. your hurt is not too much here. your becoming is not too much here.

this is for the ones who have loved hard and learned harder. for the ones rebuilding with dirt under their nails and fire in their throat. for the ones who are tired of pretending damage does not change you. for the ones who know blooming is not always delicate.

sometimes it is violent. sometimes it is holy. sometimes it is just dragging yourself back into the light one breath at a time.

welcome to whispered words.

written in wreckage, rooted in bloom.

with ink + bloom, 🌻